Folio 24 by HFU Folio

I I

_19!70 I I I

1960 I I I

3-- �:>!-->� I

HOLY FAMILY COLLEGE

Special thanks to all the administrators, faculty, staff, and students who contributed to past and present Fo!Zos. Your generosity has been greatly appreciated. The Folio 24 Staff

TENEOR VOTIS

I am bound to give of myself because I have received.

Folio24 The Folio is a belles-lettres publication of contemporary artistic expres sion. The journal, though student generated, encompasses in words and graphics the combined talent of the Holy Family College Com munity. Submissions, however, are welcome from contributors beyond the College Community and may be sent to the following address: Folio, Humanities Division, Holy Family College, Grant and Frankford Avenues, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania 19114.

Chief Editor: Freda M. Terrell Editorial Assistant: Michael DiGregorio Senior Editorial Staff Judith Adams Aileen M. Tosti Christopher Tait Joanna Zawila Millie Curley Erin McCabe Readers William Smigiel, Joseph Klein, Chris Vogt, Meredith Kahn, Joseph Mason Moderator Thomas Francis Lombardi, Ph.D. Professor, Humanities Division

Thanks to Mrs. Victoria P. Lombardi, Lecturer, for her input and proofreading. Special tha11ks to Mrs. Pamela Flynn, Lecturer. and art students for their graphic contributions, especially Joanna Zawila and Marcie Dieckmann. And, to Sr. Johanna Gedaka, SSJ, PhD., whose support was pivotal in the publication of Folio 24. 2

ďż˝VJ

Fears From Fire ............................................................................... 4 Hallowed Ground ............................................................................ 7 take a while/ think about it ............................................................. 8 Forever ............................................................................................ 9 The Snake ..................................................................................... 12 T he Stable ..................................................................................... 13 Just a Little Kiss ............................................................................ 14 Millennium ........ , ........................................................................... 17 911 Chester Place .......................................................................... 18 Tea Kettle Whistles ....................................................................... 23 Sicilian Dreams ............................................................................. 24 Rocky Mountain High ................................................................... 25 that same path ............................................................................... 31 90 Degrees .................................................................................... 32 Summer in Carolina ...................................................................... 35 Mommy's Gone ...........................................................Âˇ.................. 36 A Tear for Her in the Middle of the Night .................................... 39 Single Bullet .................................................................................. 40 Lighthouse .................................................................................... 43 Your Wide Smile Cascades Down the White Canvas ................... 44

Fears From Fire Mike slept on the couch, his sneakers still on, half-eaten hoagie on his lap. His roommate lay on the other couch, face down. Beer bottles covered the table, and a half-smoked cigarette still smoul dered in the ashtray. The television showed only a snowstorm as it hissed at the two men, but its efforts to wake them proved futile com pared to the banging of Debbie at their door. "Wake up! Wake up!" she yelled, frantically pounding on the door. Mike finally awoke, brushed the hoagie off of his lap, and an swered the door. Greeted by an extremely distressed look on Debbie's face, Mike quickly roused Craig from his sleep. Debbie spoke hys terically to the two men as they tried to calm her. "There's a fire! There's a fire!" cried Debbie, wiping tears away from her eyes as she took a seat on the couch. "What? A fire! Where?" asked Craig in a startled tone. Unable to contain her emotions, Debbie stood up from the couch. Then she paced back and forth as she gave the details of the story. "Mitch called upstairs. He said that after we left last night a couch caught on fire. They dumped ice from the keg on the flames and moved the couch onto the front porch. They thought it was out." "So, then what happened? Why are you so upset?" questioned Craig as he laced up his shoes. A feeling of uneasiness grew in their stomachs with each word Debbie spoke. The two men slipped their jackets on as Debbie con tinued to inform them of the alarming news. "The fire wasn't completely out. It started back up again when everyone was sleeping. The entire house is in flames," cried Debbie. "Mitch told me to wake you guys because they may need help." Debbie's voice began to tremble once again as she continued. "He wasn't sure who was still in the house. He just said that it was bad." "Come on, I'll drive," replied Craig, picking his keys up from the floor. The three friends ran out the door and stopped instantly in their tracks. They set their gaze upon the eerie occurrence in the sky. Dispir iting black smoke billowed from a building several blocks away. A blazing orange and red light illuminated the pre-dawn sky. 4

"Oh, my God," exclaimed Craig, taken aback by the display in the sky. 'That's Mitch's house. Let's go." They climbed into the car and slowly made their way across the town. Unable to penetrate within two blocks of the house, they left the car and continued on foot. The overwhelming number of fire fighters, police, and medical personnel made the severity of the trag edy quickly become evident. Flames still engulfed the house, making a mockery of the streams of water trying to end their reign. Crowds gathered. People held one another and watched in horror as the fire ran rampant. Many turned away for short periods of time, some be cause they could not watch the horror, others because the heat from the fire several hundred feet away became too hot to bear. Gradually, firefighters began taming the beast and then started the search for bodies. "Who's still in there?" asked Craig, almost fearful of the answer. "We're not sure, but we tried to account for everyone. Do any of you guys know if Dennis came home?" asked Mitch. "Dennis was still here when I left," answered Craig. "I just as sumed that he was going to pass out here. I hope he's all right. Mike, why don't you take Debbie and go look for Dennis?" Mike placed his arm around Debbie's shoulder, and together they walked toward their car. The crowd grew larger by the minute as hundreds of people watched in horror. Neighbors stood on their front porches, and representatives from the University gathered on side walks. College students arrived on mountain bikes and watched as television crews filmed the tragedy. A feeling of helplessness sur rounded the masses who watched and waited. Groups of teary-eyed friends clutched one another along with hopes that there would be survivors. Many prayed, hoping that the next body discovered would not be one of their friends. Clergymen and counselors offered assis tance to students overwhelmed by emotion. Surrounded by their closest friends, Mitch and Craig's concern for Dennis' safety grew with the size of the crowd. Craig's attention quickly turned back to the house as the firefighters carried a body from the still smouldering ashes. "I wonder--" Craig had not finished the sentence when he real ized that he did not want to know the answer. He watched and hoped 5

that Mike would be the person who found Dennis and not the fireÂ man. With the removal of each body, time seemed to stand stilll. Every few minutes, the firefighters appeared from the gutted house carrying a new stretcher with a different friend. After endless hours and five stretchers, a fireman walked into the crowd and made an announceÂ ment. "This is the last one," he said, as he took off his helmet and wiped soot from his face. "We can't release names until their parents are notified," exclaimed the firefighter, visibly exhausted. The crowd began to disperse;. a friend offered Craig and Mitch a ride to Mitch's house. "I can't believe this. This is nuts," said Craig as he sat in the back seat, his head in his lap. "Where the hell is Dennis?" he yelled, turning as they passed by to look at the smouldering remnants of the house. The car arrived at Mitch's house. Friends gathered to pay their condolences. Craig walked inside and looked for Mike and Debbie. He dreaded the meeting but knew waiting would not change their answer. He finally found them sitting together on a couch. From the looks on their faces, he expected the worst. "Did you find Dennis?" asked Craig hesitantly. Debbie raised her head from her lap, showed Craig her teary, blood shot eyes and burst into tears. "We couldn't find him anywhere. We searched everywhere. I think he was inside," answered Mike. Overwhelmed by emotion Craig turned and walked toward the window. He looked outside to see if smoke still filled the air. OccaÂ sionally he sobbed, thinking of the good times that he had shared with Dennis. Entranced by the events of the day, Craig did not notice the car that pulled up in front of the house. Oblivious to the outside world, Craig did not move until someone grabbed him from behind. "Yo, where have you been? I've been looking for you all day," someone yelled, shaking Craig from his trance-like state. Craig turned to look. He knew who it was. He just had to make sure. -Theodore Qualli 6

Hallowed Ground On Author's Ridge in Concord's Sleepy Hollow, they sleep, quietly: Louisa May Alcott, Nathaniel Hawthorne, Thoreau, Ralph Waldo Emerson. Emerson. The amorphous stone, Like his thought, sits squat, googly. Carrara marble? So unfamiliar here Among these solemn wooded columns. Nearby at the land's highest point His student rests in peace. Quarters. Stones hold down messages, Like Catholic prayers meant for Saints, Written to him. One white mushroom, Recently plucked, lies before the stone. Grey, unadorned, not one-foot high, Popped from the grassless spiny ground. For all the many words he wrote His name upon the stone Seems strangely scant: Henry - Thomas F. Lombardi

take a while think about it I am taking my sock off 111 a room that is in a house on a tree-lined street in an old neighborhood of a big city on the edge of a continent of a fragile planet close to a yellow sun which burns delightfully in an obscure arm of a spiral galaxy as the universe expands I am taking off the other sock -William Smigiel

Forever "Come in," Tom said as he opened the door of his small apart ment. "Sit down. I'll be out in a minute." He rushed down the hall caffying a pile of laundry. "No rush," said Jamie, trying to sound casual. 'Tm really glad you called," he called from the bedroom. "It's been forever since you called up outta nowhere and said you wanted to come over." "I know." "I was thinking about cleaning the place up and making you a romantic dinner or something," he said when he returned to the living room, "but I didn't have enough time." "You're not going to make this easy on me," she mumbled. "What'd ya say?" "Nothing ... nothing." She tried to look at anything but the young man's face, but everywhere she turned, she was mocked by remind ers. A picture taken at the beach last summer, their Senior Prom pic ture, even the "I love you" teddy bear she had given him on their first Valentine's Day together--all reminders of the difficult task ahead of her. "Oh, OK. Well, you said you had something you wanted to talk to me about. So, what's up?" he asked as he continued to collect stray socks from around the room. "Yeah, I do want to talk about something. I've been doing a lot of thinking lately. About us." "Us?" He forgot about his cleaning efforts and studied her anx ious face. "Yeah. I guess you've noticed that things haven't been right be rween us for awhile. That's what I've been thinking about. Some thing has to change." "I know things have been strange between us lately. Believe me, I've thought about it, too. We've both been so busy. We just need to spend more time together. Like we used to." "I don't know if that'll fix things," she sighed. "Look, you know I'd do anything for you. I love you. I've been 9

waiting to propose, but I didn't think you were ready for that yet." ·'Got that right," she mumbled. "Just tell me what you want. What do you want me to do? What can I give you that will make you happy?" He tried to hold her hands, but she pulled them away and started to play nervously with the but tons of her jacket. "Space. Time." "What?" He had a startled look on his face. "What do you mean?" "Please don't tell me this is a shock to you!" She abandoned the buttons and looked directly at him now. "I think it's pretty obvious that I am unhappy. My family knows. My friends. Even my boss could tell that I've been miserable! Don't tell me you didn't notice!" Tom tried to look at the girl sitting beside him, but she quickly covered her face with her trembling hands. "So you're breaking up with me?" he asked, still perplexed. "I never meant to hurt you," she said in an apologetic tone. "I just need... something." "Not hurt me!" His tone became angry. "How could I not be hurt '7 You've been my whole life for five years. How could I not be hurt?" "Look, we were fifteen years old when we met. Things are differ ent now. I've changed a lot. And so have you," she said, her eyes now filling with tears. "Anyway, it doesn't have to be 'forever.' Maybe ... things changed before. They could change again. I just need some," she hesitated, "space." "Give me a break. I don't want your sympathy. You're not com ing back." As he began pacing back and forth, running his hands through his hair, Jamie tried desperately to think of something--anything--to say. "Is there someone else? There is, right?" he asked, before she could speak. "What? That doesn't matter!" she was caught off guard by his question. "Just tell me!" "I didn't mean for it to happen. Actually nothing's happened. I don't even know him that well. It's just, well, when I met him--" "I can't believe you," he said, disgustedly. "What do you want me to do? Would it have been better if I'd 10

have cheated and lied and pretended that everything was okay? Would you have liked that better? Come on! You had to know this was com ing." He stormed down the hall, and an instant later Jamie heard a crash ing sound from the bathroom. When she rushed into the room, she saw Tom sitting on the side of the bathtub, blood trickling from a cut on his fist and a large hole in the hollow plaster wall. "You're bleeding!" She didn't know what else to say. "Why don't you stop pretending you care and just get outta here?" His voice was mixed with hurt and anger. "But I--I don't want to leave you here like this," Jamie spoke nervously. "Don't flatter yourself," he said sarcastically. "I'd hardly kill myself over you." "That's not what I meant." "Jamie, go. Get outta here, or I might hit you next." Slowly, she backed out of the room, shocked by the hateful way he looked at her. She put on her coat and looked around the apartment one last time. She stood by the door for what seemed an eternity before Tom came back into room. The anger in his voice and coldness in his eyes had subsided, but Jamie could sense his pain as he spoke to her. "If you leave now, it is going to be forever. I'm not gonna sit around waiting for you for the rest of my life." "I wouldn't want you to." "Good, I won't." His voice was emotionless. "Well, I guess this is good-bye then." "Yup." As he watched the girl he loved turn the door knob, his finger traced the edge of a framed picture of the two of them, to gether, happy. "Good-bye," she said as she closed the door behind her. He watched her leave, took one last look at her smiling face in the picture, and then bellowed with rage as he threw it against the door she had just closed. "Good-bye forever," he said as he looked at the picture now covered with shattered glass. -Megan Clements 11

The Snake The Snake slithers along its scaly green skin to the farmer's house and barn. It feeds on the cows and chickens that are burning in the moonlight. After digesting its prey, the Snake begins to sleep. As its eyes flutter shut, it dreams of the days of the apple tree. So long ago...so many souls damned since! The days of yonder gone, yet still here. I made the apple red and succulent... I made her breasts round and firm! "May I eat this apple? May I touch her breasts?" "You may eat from anything but this apple tree. You may touch anything except what is from your rib." "But I'm so hungry. I need to satisfy my cravings!" As the Snake takes pleasure in its dream, a loud clash of thunder awakens it. It makes its way to the church. Not for prayer, nor for worship, nor for thanksgiving, but because the minister's daughter is in love with the Snake! 12

-Michael DiGregorio

The Stable Restless memories haunt this old stable cracking the once white-washed facade splintering the ancient joists and timbers wedging open the present so wind and dawn can sliver through every chink and crevice. Already the darkness of yesterday's fetid confines has turned to shadows and become today's gestational space, a breeding ground for the hidden life sired by wind and light. Soon a howl will rip through any remaining silent, breathless space reaching every unlit corner breaching every resistance opening this beaten-down hovel to house the cosmos. -Sara Wuthnow 13

Just a Little Kiss We got out of the car after I had parked in front of her rowhouse. Even at one o'clock in the morning, Mira still looked radiant in her dress, leather jacket, stockings, and pumps, all black. Compared to her, I was savagely underdressed, in my black Nirvana T-shirt, blue jeans, and black high tops. The walk up to her porch lasted only a few seconds but felt like an eternity. I knew what I had to do when the moment came but doubted if I could do it right or even if I had the guts to do it at all. In my twenty years of life, I had been in this situation before, but every time, I had experienced the same trepidation about the moment. I felt my heart pounding excessively, as if I had just strapped on a parachute and jumped out of an airplane. We stood on the porch staring at each other, waiting to see who would talk first. The soft hum of cars in the distance provided our soundtrack, the streetlights illuminated the darkness of the night, and the cool spring breeze surrounded us, gently rustling her long red hair. Though the wind did not affect me, I could see her shivering. In that moment, I saw complete beauty in her and wondered whether I should interrupt this moment by making what could possibly be the wrong move. "Did you have a good time?" I finally blurted out. "Oh, yes," Mira responded. "I had a great time." "Yeah, it was a fun party." "Yes, it was." An uncomfortable silence followed. Desperately I searched my thoughts for something interesting to say but came up blank. I stood there awkwardly, hoping Mira would say something. Thankfully, she did. "Thank you for buying me dinner before the party tonight." "Oh, hey, it was no problem," I responded. "It was my pleasure." 'Tm glad to hear it." "Yeah." Another uncomfortable silence followed. Should I do it now? I thought. Is the moment right or should I wait? Damn it! I wish I 14

could remember how to act in situations like these! "Well, I guess I should get inside now," she said. "Yeah," I said, "Okay, whatever." Come on, ,nan. Do it. This could be your only shot. Go for it. "Well, good night," Mira said gently. Do it now, you silly bastard. It's easy. Just move in slowly. Gently put vour an11s aroundher, and kiss her. That's it. ··Good night," I replied, sheepishly. No! No! You blew it! Now she's going inside, and you won't get another shot at it! You really blew the call this time, kid! However, she did not move, and neither did I. The cool wind whipped around us again, forcing her to bury her delicate hands in side her jacket pockets. I looked at her closely, seeing her shivering badly but not budging. She's not m.oving, I thought. Does this mean she's thinking the same thing I'm thinking? Goel, I hope so... but is she waiting for me to ,nake the first move? "Hey, Lloyd," she said. "Yeah?" I answered "Is this where we're supposed to kiss?" Yes, Lloyd! Say, "Yes!" "I...I think so. I dunno," I blurted out. "I guess it is...but only if you want to." "Okay, I'm fine with it," Mira whispered softly, "but only if you're okay with it." 'Tm okay with it," I replied tenderly. "You sure?" "Sure I'm sure," I reassured. "How 'bout you? Are you sure?" "Yes, I'm sure," she replied. "Cool." "Alright. Do you wanna do it now or... ?" "Yeah, I suppose so. Just a little kiss, I guess." "Okay." This is it, Lloyd. Brace yourself. Slowly, we moved in for the kiss. She put her arms around me as I placed my hands on her hips. Our heads moved closer and closer to each other. The moment felt so right, the night so perfect, the day so 15

grand. ·"Ouch!" we yelled simultaneously as our foreheads absurdly bumped together. Our lock broke as we retreated to tend to our wounds. You stupid idiot! How the hell could you do something like that? Our eyes met again as we placed our hands on our foreheads. I looked at her and felt like a moron. I couldn't believe how foolish I looked. Suddenly, she laughed. Soon, I joined the laughter. We howled at the absurdity of this little moment. Finally, that humorous moment faded, forever embedded in the past, and we found ourselves back where we had started. "Wanna try that again?" she whispered. "Sure!" This time, everything went perfectly. We embraced and kissed, and the kiss we shared invalidated the little kiss we had started out with by becoming more passionate, more romantic, and, well, more, French. When we unlocked, we looked at each other. "Wow," she said, smiling. "Yeah," I responded. "That wasn't so hard. You know, I'd been hyping this moment up in my mind all week, and, you know, it wasn't as horrible as I'd ex pected it to be." "I know exactly how you feel," I said. "All this worry over just a little kiss." "I know. Good night," she said, smiling. "Good night," I said as I watched her enter the house. I turned around, jumped down the steps, and ran to my car. I got in, closed the door, turned on the ignition, and drove off. For the first time in my life, I felt at peace with myself, content with what I had done. Everything seemed right with the world. Even Frankford Av enue, a playground for Philadelphia's worst drivers, seemed peaceful as I drove down that roadway, heading home. -Chris Tait

Millennium Two thousand A.D. approaches. "Y 2 K," you say? Four O's compound the data base that spins the world today. The word millennium frightens some like a meteor hurtling through space to earth. "The end," you say? Too big to comprehend, MILLENNIUMmmmm. Sing a song with a cheery face, the sun is laughing, the moon is yawning at the hot and bothered human race. MERRY CHRISTMAS, 0000 -Cecelia Johnson

911 Chester Place Joseph Brinkley entered the kitchen and found his wife sunounded by bowls, eggs, sugar, and cans of pumpkin. "Good Morning, Sera," he said. "It smells like someone's been very busy around here." Pausing to brush a smudge of flour from her face, she looked up at him and smiled. "Coffee's ready. Do you want some breakfast?" she asked, knead ing dough for the pie crust. "No, thanks," he replied, leaning over to kiss her. "Coffee's fine. W here are the kids?" he asked. "Butch went to the game with Tommy Brown. Lambertville is playing Richfield this year," she said, turning to check the turkey. "Lambertville played Richfield our senior year," he said, pausing to give her a playful swat on the bottom as he walked toward the coffee pot. "Joe! Stop that," she said, flinging bits of dough across the room as she batted his hand away. "Francesca went to pick up your parents, and Donna," she paused. "Well, Donna's still sleeping." "Surprise, surprise," he said between sips of coffee. 'That's all she's done since she's been home. Has she done anything about getting a job yet 7'' he asked. "No." Sera replied. "And please don't ask her about it today. It's Thanks giving, for heaven's sake," she said, the pitch of her voice rising. Sensing his wife's agitation, Joe walked back to the table where Sera was working. "Is there something you're not telling me?" he asked. "Yes," she said, pushing the dough aside. "Morn called last night and asked if she could bring a friend to dinner today. You know she hasn't been the same since my father died last year, and I didn't have the heart to say no." "Well, that's not so bad," he said. "Nobody could be worse than the man she brought to Easter dinner. I've never seen anyone smoke a cigar and eat at the same time." "I know," said Sera. "It took weeks to get that smell out of the house." "The worst part came after dinner," he exclaimed. "Remember when he took his teeth out arid rinsed them in your mother's water glass?" he asked, laughing. "Oh, gross!" said Sera. "Please, don't remind me." "Is that it?" he asked. "No," replied Sera. "Donna has asked a young man to join us for din ner, and I don't--" "Wait, just a minute," he inte1rupted. "That girl can't get out of bed to 18

find a job. Are you telling me that she somehow found the energy to find a . boyfriend?" he asked, slamming his coffee cup on the counter. "Joe, please," she pleaded. 'Tm under enough pressure as it is. Can't you just let it go for today? Just today. It's a holiday," she said, voice trem bling. 'Tm sorry, Sera," he said, reaching over to hug her. "Donna gets a twenty-four hour reprieve, but she better get a job soon." "Thank you , dear," she said. "Now get out of the kitchen so I can finish these pies. Francesca will be back with your parents soon." 'Tm leaving," he said. "By the way, are there any more unexpected guests popping in today?" he asked. "I know who you're referring to, Joseph Brinkley," replied Sera. "You don't expect me to leave my brother all alone on Thanksgiving, do you?" she asked. "Nope," he replied. "I just hope he leaves his stiletto home this year," he said, walking out of the room. Sera had just finished setting the dining room table when she heard the front door slam. "Mom, Grandmom Angela is here, and you won't believe who her date is," shrieked eighteen-year-old Francesca. "Franki, calm down," said Sera, rushing into the living room. "Where are Mom-Mom and Pop-Pop Brinkley?" she asked. "They're out in the car, searching for Mom-Mom's hearing aid. Mom!" whined Franki, frantically running her fingers through her hair. "Grandmom Angela's date is Danny Del Vecchio!" "The Danny Del Vecchio that took you to his Senior Prom last year?" asked Sera, in disbelief. "Yes," cried Franki. "I can't believe she's done this to me." Holding a hand to her pounding head, Sera looked at her distraught daughter and said, "Franki, give me a few minutes to sort this all out. Go upstairs and talk to your sister. Her boyfriend just called. He won't be com ing to dinner, and Donna is very upset." "But, Mom," protested Franki. "Can't you hear that doorbell ringing?" asked Sera. "Go. Now. I have to answer the door." "Fine," replied Franki, angrily stomping up the stairs. Reaching the top, she yelled, "You'd better do something about your Mother. Grandmom An gela is completely out of control." Stepping into the dining room, Joe asked, "What's wrong with Franki?'' Hurrying to the door, Sera replied, "It's Mother, She's causing trouble again." "What did she do this time?" he asked. 19

"I don't have time to explain. Your parents are here," said Sera, as she reached out and opened the door. "Happy Thanksgiving, Mother Brinkley. I haven't seen you in such a long time," said Sera. "Three o'clock, I think," replied Margaret Brinkley, as she walked into the living room. "I've misplaced my watch, so you'II have to ask the doctor. Hello, Joseph," said Margaret. "Come over here and give your mother a kiss.'' Joe walked over and leaned down, kissing his mother on the cheek. "Where's your hearing aid?" he asked. "She's lost it again," boomed retired dentist, Howard R. Brinkley. Fol lowing his wife into the room, he greeted Sera with a kiss. "I know," said Sera. "Franki's already told me. I have the one she mis placed on Easter. It's on the sideboard in the dining room." 'That's our Sera. She's always prepared for an emergency," said Howard. Smiling, he turned to his wife and said loudly, 'Tm so thankful that our Joe found such a wonderful woman. Don't you agree, Mother?" "Happy Thanksgiving to you too, dear," replied Margaret, comfortably seated in her favorite chair. 'T d better go get Mother's hearing aid," said Joe, exiting the room. Addressing her in-laws, Sera asked. "Would you like something?" "Seraphina!" barked a disembodied voice. "Are you going to leave your poor, elderly mother standing out here on the step all day?" "I'm sorry, Mother," said Sera rushing to the door. "Why didn't you--? Oh, my God, I!" she exclaimed. There stood Angela Pentangelli, dressed from head to toe in black leather, a pink feather boa wrapped around her neck. Beside her stood nineteen-year-old Danny Del Vecchio. "Are you going to invite us inside?" snapped Angela. Stepping out of the way, Sera said, "Come in, Mother. Hello, Danny." "Hi, Mrs. B., happy Thanksgiving," said Danny. "Why don't the two of you have a seat," said Sera. "I'II go get the refreshments." Finding a seat on the sofa, Angela said, "Happy holidays, Margaret." "It's not a holy day," said Margaret. ''I'd know if it was a holy day. If anybody--" Quickly interrupting his wife, Howard said, "Hello, Angela. You're look ing as usual.., "Hello, Howard," replied Angela. Returning to the living room with his mother's hearing aid, Joe stopped in midstride. Looking at his mother-in-law, he asked, "Did that costume 20

come with a whip?" "Hello, Joe," said Angela. "How's the plumbing business these days?" "It pays the bills," replied Joe. Pointing at Danny, he asked, "She your date, or are you babysitting today?" Sensing impending disaster, Sera suggested, "Joe, why don't you and the fellows join Butch in the family room. I'm sure half-time is over by now." "That's a great idea," said Howard, rising from the sofa. Come on, Danny. You don't want to be here when these women get talking." "Are you sure you don't need any help, Sera?" asked Joe. "I think you've helped enough," she replied. Turning to leave the room, Joe said, "Come on, Dad. I'll show you the beer machine I just bought." Stepping aside to let the men pass, Sera asked, "Mother Brinkley, would you like something to drink?" "Whiskey and water would be nice, If it's not too much trouble," she replied. "No trouble at all," said Sera. Turning to Angela, she asked, "Mother, will you help me in the kitchen?" Giving Sera a disapproving look, Angela stood up and followed her out of the room. Pausing, on the way to the kitchen, Sera yelled up the stairs, "Franki, Donna, come down, now. I want you to keep Mom-Mom Brinkley occu pied." Not waiting for a reply, Sera turned to Angela and said, "Come along, Mother. You've got alot of explaining to do." Setting up a tray with glasses and an ice bucket, Sera looked at her mother and said, "You've gone from a man with false teeth to a boy who hasn't grown his wisdom teeth. You can't possibly have anything in com mon. I know that you miss Daddy, but this is ridiculous. Have you com pletely lost your mind?" Sera paused to take a breath. "Don't you have anything to say?" she asked, turning to get ice from the freezer. "I was waiting for you to finish your speech," answered Angela. "Where is the whiskey? I'll help you make the drinks." "It's under the sink," replied Sera. "Is that all you have to say?" she asked. "I met him at the supermarket," said Angela. "He helped me get my car started. Do you think Joe would mind getting me a new battery?" she asked.. "Danny said the problem is a bad battery." "Mother!" said Sera. "Please get back to the point. Why are you dating that boy?" "He's a nice, clean cut, good looking young man, and he--" 21

"He what?" interrupted Sera, banging her fist on the table. "And, cara mia," said Angela, stroking her daughter's cheek, "he asked me to bring him to dinner, so he could see Francesca again." Holding an ice cube to her throbbing temple, Sera said, 'Tm confused. How did Franki come into the picture?" "You don't listen," said Angela, as she hastily removed a tray of hors d'oeuvres from the oven. A1nnging the tiny hotdog sandwiches on a platter, she said, "While he worked on my car, I told him all about my beautiful granddaughter. He said, 'She sounds a lot like the girl I took to my prom last year.' One thing led to another, and here we are," said Angela. T he kitchen door banged open, startling the two women. "Hey, Grandmom, where'd you park your Harley?" asked Butch, laughing. "Don't be fresh, Butch," said Sera. "What do you want?" she asked. "Uncle Tony just got here," said Butch. "He wants to know if you have an old towel he could use." Searching through a cupboard drawer for the towel, Sera asked, '"What does he need a towel for?" Butch popped a few hotdog sandwiches into his mouth and said, "So he doesn't bleed on the furniture." "Bleeding! Why is he bleeding?" demanded Angela. Continuing to stuff himself with hors d'oeuvres, Butch gleefully re sponded, '"Cause he sat on his stiletto. He didn't--" Not bothering to wait for Butch to finish his sentence, Sera and Angela rushed from the room. Sera watched from the front step, as Joe helped Tony into Angela's car. "Drive carefully, Mother," she yelled. "Don't w01Ty, Sera," said Angela, climbing behind the wheel of her car. Shutting the passenger side door, Joe stepped away from the car. "Hey, Joe," said Tony. "Save me a drumstick." "No problem, Tony," said Joe, as he walked over to Sera, and put his arm around her shoulders. Waving goodbye, Sera turned to her husband and said, "Honestly, Joe, with all the emergencies that occur around here, I sometimes think our ad dress should be 911 Chester Place." Before Joe could reply, they were interrupted by Butch. "Mom! you better come quick," warned Butch, in a panicky voice. "There's smoke pour ing out of the oven." Running toward the kitchen, Joe yelled over his shoulder, "Sera, next Thanksgiving you and I are going out for dinner. Alone!" -Christine DiSario-Sablich 22

Tea Kettle Whistles The tea kettle whistles as the steam pours out. She screams along asking questions that no one hears. The faded curtains flap as the lawn turns brown around the empty house.

;ďż˝

,Âˇ

Questions go unanswered as the tea kettle whistles. A portrait of distortion reflects back from the cloudy window. She moves to pour a cup of comfort watching her movements to see if she is real. Living alone doing what she has to do still gives her no answers. The tea kettle whistles, the traffic goes by and life goes on. -Janice Jakubowicz

Sicilian Dreams And clay bakes under bot Sicilian sun Landrovers view landscape Complete with obligatory olive Their portage eyes perfection "Siciliana" --no longer a curse Yet, slinking behind curtains, for fear of moths, They peer through oleander hedges into poverty Tempted not to squint for the other v.iew Amazed they see, Near Pirandello's tree, Uprooted by wind Sicilian water coasting African Sea. Sardines cook in thermal baths, Two salt marshes left, Near tuna tower. Like people, olives all the same Only time on the tree makes them different. Each Christian on a personal cross Tries truth on Trapani 's plain Only later could they observe Wheels withip wheels on temple top. Scorning bot Sicilian ways. -Victoria P. Lombardi

Rocky Mountain High "Hey, duder, what's up? How was work?" Rick asked, somewhat inÂ toxicated with sleep. He had waited in his car for two hours in the chilly December winter until his friend Neil arrived home from work and his girlfriend's house. Every weekend the usual routine occurred: Rick would arrive at their meeting place on Friday night a few hours early because, had he chosen to leave his house after midnight, his parents would not have allowed it or, at least, would have made a huge fuss, asking all kinds of questions to which he did not want them to know the answers. While waiting for his friend, Rick usually enjoyed reading, but that night, as he listened to the secluded howls of the distant freight trains, his books remained closed. That night Rick thought about his future. That night he thought about how, after graduating from college in two years, his life would drastically change, and people would expect greater accomplishments through his maturity. He gave thought to his financial situation and realized he needed to alter his spending if he wished to have enough money one day to support himself. At twelve-thirty in the morning, sleep still teased Rick's eyes, but he chased it away with the soothing inhalants of a Marlboro. While taking that first delicious drag of a menthol cigarette, he glanced at the full moon in the sky and thought about all the pursuing "werewolves," lunatics that appear only during a full moon. Answering Rick's initial question, Neil exclaimed, "Rough! But I had some fun tonight with me and the woman." Rick feigned a laugh as he entered the car and unlocked the passenger-side door for his friend. He began driving on the ice-slicked road while Neil turned on the radio and popped in a cassette tape. As The Doors' Alabama Song blared from the speakers--"Well, show me the way to the next whiskey bar"--Rick bounced his head to the beat, sang a few words between cigarette puffs, and wondered why in the world he always came out this late at night or, rather, this early in the morning. "So, whaddaya feel like <loin' tonight--Quick Six?" Rick asked, referÂ ring to the neighborhood pub. "Yeah. I'll get somethin' if you're goin' ." The neighborhood appeared desolate, even at that hour; consequently, Rick wondered whether his imagination had fabricated the "werewolves." He and his friend drove on as the lone pursuers in the on-going quest to find something to do. As they continued to head toward the pub, the bright lights of a railroad crossing began flashing, and Rick stopped the car in front of 25

the inhibiting, orange and white, striped arms, waiting for the oncoming train. About thirty seconds later, as the train continued to speed past Rick and Neil's viewpoint, Neil uttered, "These trains are so damn long." In a daydream, a nightmare, Rick sat unaffected by Neil's comment. In Rick's mind, he strolls down a lonely country road, illuminated by only the light of the full moon. He remembers someone once saying to him, "Always stay on the path," but glances down and notices not the road but a grassy field. He hears movement behind him and decides to hasten his pace. A lonely howl. Rick walks even more quickly. A thick fog now encompasses the entire area, and Rick stops, realizing he is lost. , Another howl. Rick begins to run, glancing over his shoulder every half second in an attempt to assure himself he is not being followed. A third howl. This one originating in front of him. Rick collides with something and falls to the ground. Blind because of the fog, Rick hears grunting, and, while attempting to rise, feels a great weight fling him back on the ground jumping him. Struggling to free himÂ self, he feels upon his neck the warm breath of an animal. Rick cries in pain as the animal.... "Rick, snap out of it," shouted Neil over the passing train, not knowing why his friend would not respond. "Whoa ... What," responded Rick, shaking his head and attempting to snap out of his daze. "Duder, you must have been daydreaming or somethin'. Is everything okay?" "No. Yeah. Well ... no. Neil, can I ask you a strange question?" "Shoot." "Did you ever feel like something was trying to get you?" "You think someone's following you?" "Not someone, something! I feel like something's out to get me, and it's closin' in on me as we speak." "What do you think it could be?" "How the hell should I know? I always used to think that if something were out to get me it'd be some sort of werewolf. I mean, something straight from out those Lon Chaney, Jr. werewolf movies of the forties that used to scare the hell out of me when I was little and give me nightmares." "You've got to loosen up, man. I think your mom and dad have finally driven you insane. These--werewolves, as you say--they're only figments of your imagination. You're no more in danger of anything jumping out and 26

getting you than I am of meeting my maker tonight." "Yeah, I guess you're right. Sorry if I'm so depressed, dude. It's just that my parents have been getting on my case to do better in school, get a better job...you know, the same old crap." "Don't worry about it, man. Let's just go get some beer." Rick drove on, forgetting about his nightmare and concentrating solely on his driving. As they pulled to the curb in front of the bar, Neil asked, "Are you gonna buy yours tonight?" "I don't know. Ya think I should? Think I could get served?" The cigaÂ rette in Rick's mouth burned down to no more than a cherry and singed his lips. "Ah, what the hell," he interjected into his questioning, while quickly grasping and discarding the cigarette filter. "Uh, no, man. Forget it. Even though I'll probably get away with it, I don't wanna risk it till I'm legal." In only a few months, Rick would turn twenty-one years old and have the ability to buy liquor legally. "No problem, duder. So, whaddaya want?" Neil always went into the bar for the both of them, no matter how many times Rick thought about doing it himself. Neil said he did not have a problem with it, but Rick always wondered whether Neil thought they hung out only because he could buy Rick beer. "How much for a six-pack of Molson Ice?" Rick knew the answer but wanted to give the impression that he actually considered spending the money for the "good stuff." "Probably about nine bucks." Realizing Molson cost too much to afford, Rick gave the excuse that he did not want it because he had forgotten his bottle opener, and the tops of Molson bottles did not twist off. "Just get me a forty of Eight-Ball," he decided, knowing that Old English cost only three dollars. As Neil walked into the bar, Rick changed the cassette in the tape deck and made a turn onto the sidewalk to park. From the speakers blasted the Rolling Stones' Where the Boys Go: "Saturday morning you can see me at the pub, and I'm pissing away my money, and I can't stand up." After lightÂ ing another cigarette, as the nicotine filled his lungs and he exhaled the poisons of yet another day of existence, he waited in the freezing car for his friend while forming smoke rings with his lips. Perhaps someone will see these signals and come to take me away from my misery, he thought. Taking a deep drag of the Marlboro, Rick noticed a set of glaring eyes and the dimmed red and blue antlers of a police patrol car in the side-view mirror. Oh, shit! What the hell are the cops doing here, he panicked as the patrol car drove along side him. Just keep drivin '. That's it. That's it. Car thirteen slowed to about five miles per hour as it drove past Rick,.and he 27

noticed the occupant glance in his direction. After about ten seconds, il sped up and continued on its way. As Rick flicked his cigarette and broke the bond between cherry and filter, his heart rate returned to its nom1al beat while Neil exited the bar but without any bags. Curious, Rick asked, "Yo, man, what happened to the beer?'' "Duder, there's nobody in there, and I know the bartender, and he said we could drink in there, and you could get served, no problem." Rick pondered the idea for a split second but, remembeting his encounÂ ter with the cop car, quickly recovered, "No, man, I don't wanna risk it. If you wanna stay in there, fine. I' 11 just find somethin' else to do tonight." Not the least bit disappointed, Neil, a true friend Rick would have for the rest of his life, softly said, "No problem, duder. I understand. But there is one thing. They don't have any forties. What do you want?" "Um, let me check how much money I have on me." Trying to save money, Rick did not want to spend most of it on beer. Handing Neil a bill, Rick said shamefully, "I only have five bucks, so get me whatever you can for that.'' Still nervous because of the earlier appearance of the unwelcome visitor and expecting to see the police car glide by again at any moment, Rick lit another Marlboro, hoping the nicotine would calm him. As he exhaled his anxiety and uneasiness along with the cigarette smoke, Neil exited the bar carrying two brown paper bags, one under each arm. "So, duder, what did you get?" asked Rick. "All they had was Coors light, so I got two six-packs. And they're only cans." "Okay, I guess I can live with that. I never had Coors Light before. How is it'l" "I don't know. I never had it before, either. but it was the only thing they had left." As they drove off, Rick put the Doors' tape back into the cassette deck and out blasted Roadhouse Blues: "Well, I woke up this morning, and I got myself a beer. Well, I woke up this morning, and I got myself a beer. The future's uncertain, and the end is always near." "So," Rick asked, "where we off to--the tracks?" 'ÂˇYeah, I am in a tracks kinda mood tonight." Many nights Rick and Neil bought beer and went to the train tracks, not to play "chicken" or any other childish, immature games like that, but to talk about things on their minds in a place where they knew no one would bother them. They would sit on the tracks, and when a train traveled by, they would move away to avoid rocks and other debris. 28

After Rick and Neil had parked on a side street where no one would notice an unfamiliar car left for only a few hours, Rick grabbed his battery powered radio from the car trunk, and they began the two-and-a-half block trek through wild grass, cut fences, and steep hills until they reached the destination that overlooked Interstate 95. When Rick and Neil finally arrived at their destination and sat on one of the metal belts that stretched to infinity in each direction, Rick lit a celebratory cigarette. Then Rick and Neil each opened a can of Coors Light and took a deep swig of the "Silver Bullet." "So, what station do ya want on? 'MMR okay?" Rick asked, exhaling the toxins with which he purposely filled his lungs. "Yeah, 'MMR's okay. Maybe they'll play some Stones." As the night continued, Rick and Neil listened to the radio, inhaled more mentholated nicotine, discussed life, love, and the loss of God, and drained more Coors Light cans of their contents. At about three o'clock, as Rick and Neil proceeded to gulp down their sixth beer, Warren Zevon's introductory howl for Werewolves of London emanated through the radio speakers. As they drunkenly howled along with Warren, another howl introduced itself into their chorus. Not thinking any thing of it, they continued with the song. Rick reached into his pocket for a new pack of Marlboro to light another cigarette but had none left. Cursing himself, he glanced upward ... and saw the train. But it was too late. The juggernaut that had begun its journey in the Rocky Mountains roared down upon them. As the crushed cans of Coors Light settled into their final resting posi tions, the radio, uninterrupted by the passing train, screamed, "... and that was Warren Zevon with Werewolves of London. We'll be right back after a word from our sponsors. 'Rocky Mountain high. Colorado. Rocky Moun tain high, Colorado. Coors Light ... Silver Bullet smooth manufactured from the cool springs of the Rockies. This is Peter Coors reminding you that we'll wait for your business until you're twenty-one. Coors' Brewing Company... Golden, Colorado."' -Michael DiGregorio

-Joanna Zawila

that same path Dedicated to 11 Sisters of Nazareth from Novogrodek. Executed 1.08.1943 I go along the same path steeped in hope a beckoning echoÂˇ but for them feet in the earth stark questions rooted in naked thorns I lift my thoughts to intertwine with thoughts of their suffering but for them heaven split in two as a consummation swifter than bullets I pick up a fallen leaf a hushed string but for them the morningbird awakened the forest to witness and ordered the trees to resound -Sr. Bozena Anna Flak, CSFN Trans. from the Polish by Sr. Rita Kathryn Sperka, CSFN 31

90 Degrees At seven o'clock in the morning, as the sun slowly rose over the snowcapped mountains, a cold breeze chilled every bone in my body. Two feet of fresh, powdery snow had fallen on the ground, resulting in a familiar squeaking noise as I walked. The enormous snow cats that normally pack and comb the mountain snow all night had already been put away. They lay dormant in their resting place only to awaken at dusk to groom the trodden snow. In the background, I heard the clamoring of an old diesel engine as it revved up and began to carry the rusty one-cable lift around the carousel. As I threw my 185 centi足 meter Rossi's on the snow and snapped my boots into the bindings, the nervousness in my stomach assured me that today would be un足 forgettable. With the air blistering, I watched the lift ticket on my jacket dangle in the winter wind and readied myself for the ascent to the top of the mountain. Waiting in line for the ski lift, which extended beyond the parking lot, I began to shiver. Since the insulation in the jacket I wore secured little body heat, I decided to break out my flask (the one my grandfather used when working in the coal mines years ago) to take a warming swig of Jack Daniels. Reaching the front of the line, I finally felt warm. "It's time to get on the lift," barked the woman behind me. "I know, I know," I replied. Looking up at the mountain and the thirty-eight year old ski lift, I thought to myself, Are you crazy? This thing is a death trap. Never足 theless, I got on. My heart began to race uncontrollably as the chair came swinging around rapidly, rudely knocking my legs out from under me. While the lift carried me away to ski heaven, my eyes grew fixed on the unbelievably beautiful sight in front of me: snow-covered pine trees, clusters of clouds around the body of the mountain, and a crys足 tal blue sky saturated by the sun's rays. For a moment, I thought I had died and gone to heaven. Immediately, reality hit and I peered down in both astonishment and fear at the thin bar lying across my knees. You have got to be kidding me. They expect this to keep me from plummeting to the ground. At that moment, I paralleled my existence to that of a coconut. Both of us hung high in the air, with nothing 32

keeping us from crashing to earth without warning. Needless to say, Jack eased my mounting anxieties. As several precautionary warnings greeted me prior to my disembarkment from the antiquated lift, I placed my poles in one hand and blessed myself with the other. "Raise Your Bar" and "Keep Your Tips Up" read a few of the signs, which assaulted me as I swiftly approached the exit ramp. Realizing I had reached .the point of no return, I prepared for the worst. As my skis touched the pristine snow, I nearly lost my balance trying to remain upright and out of danger from the procession of oncoming skiers and chairs. As I made my way to the edge, a feeling of exhilaration filled me, and I paused for a moment to absorb the beauty of my surroundings. Gazing out onto the horizon, I observed the breath-taking view of the sun's radiant rays filling the gaps between the white puffy clouds, which had consumed much of the sky. It was not snowing, but by judging how quickly the air had grown damp, musty, and stale, I real足 ized it would be only a short time before the white flakes inundated the mountain again. I looked down into the clouds hovering below and felt as though I would be taking a leap of faith--destination un足 known. Slowly, I placed the goggles over my face. Instantly energy raced through my veins. The wind, nonexistent at the bottom of the slopes, began to gust. Its cold bit my nose. Its quick and sudden swirling movement kicked loose snow into my face, forcing me to zip my jacket over my chin. The raw air stung me through my layers of cloth足 ing. There was snow all around me, on the trail and in the trees, so much white that my eyes became blinded by the absence of color. It was too cold to remain there at the top,so I decided to ready myself for the run. The brisk wind did not interfere with my concen足 tration as I descended into the clouds below. The smooth sensation of moving through the crisp virgin snow as it passed beneath my skis created a feeling of euphoria. The natural rush that consumed every inch of my soul reassured me that I still mastered my domain. The day wore on and my legs began to feel like jell-o. The flat runs had been transformed into mogul nms, created by skiers turning in the same place all day. Over 200 of these bumps had emerged on the run, some as large as Volkswagens. The moguls, powder on top and ice underneath, were rock hard. Although I knew the danger of 33

skiing on a mogul run, I proceeded once again to the top. After wait ing for a few people to pass in front of me, I decided to try this field of horror for myself. I took a deep breath, gave myself a push, and be gan to slam from one mogul to the next. I could feel my knees crash ing into my chest. I kept my speed low in order to adjust to the moun tain and its changing conditions. As I picked up speed, I realized the moguls were too much for me to handle. Off to the side of the run, I noticed another carpet of virgin snow. It appeared mogul free, so I made my way toward it. Soon, my speed accelerated as the cold air whistled past my ears. I edged my skis, which responded to perfection, cutting into the snow and tracking across the mountain. As I gained speed by the second, my turns grew in length. Approaching the steepest part of the trail, I noticed an imperfection. A large bump waiting to devour skiers jutted out of the ground. Unfonunately, I noticed the bump too late. As I passed over it, my cold muscles were unable to absorb the shock sent to my legs. The sudden jerk of my ski sent it screaming off foot, leaving only a ski boot behind. My body thrashed uncontrollably into several hidden, icy moguls, and, after every collision, I grew more disgusted and irritated. I also knew that I had injured myself severley. I can remember thinking, You are a fool/ What the hell were you thinking, tryinR to take on a mogul run on your first day? Overall, I must have collided with six or seven moguls. How ever, the last collision represented the icing on the cake. I saw stars. The pain created on impact was excruciating, then numbing. When I finally came to a tumultuous halt, I remember lying paralyzed with pain. My last recollection on that day was seeing my knee form a perfect 90-degree angle, the wrong way. I am left with nothing more than daily aches and pains as a re minder of that day. There is no doubt that that day will prove critical in any future excursions I might ponder. And although I have since retired my skis, boots, and ski apparel, my love and desire for danger ous sports and the snow still leaves me yearning to whoosh again. -Nicole Taris

3--1-

Summer in Carolina The golden sheen of cornfields waving in the distance grandad's house (you know where mom grew up) Homemade dinners seasoned with love Homemade pies topped with laughter I take a stroll just down the road where vines of sweetly scented honeysuckle reawaken my senses The woods are protective displaying tall evergreens and pines Dragonflies hum and wildflowers stretch their tall Jean arms to shake my hand The golden sun sinks into my skin surrounding me with its power and strength I walk back to grandad's house hearing the children's laughter on the swingset and noticing the others who watch in reminiscence of their own youth Time forgets itself allowing day and night to discover each other The night falls gently as celestial bodies pierce a pitch black sky beckoning to be noticed and wished upon As I find myself retiring to bed a slight smile creeps upon my lips I now realize the crickets are not just idly chirping; they are singing me to sleep. -Candace Adams 35

Mom,ny's Gone "John, tell me about Mommy again," the young boy pleaded. "Geez, Billy," said his nineteen-year-old brother, "I just told you about her yesterday. Your memory can't be that bad." "Yeah, well you can remember her better than me. I was only six. You were" (Billy did a quick calculation) "thirteen?" he finished. "Yeah, thirteen," John echoed. '·And I meant your memory from yester day, not from when you were six." "Whatever," said Billy, sliding down from his perch on the porch railing to join his brother on the step. "You gonna tell me or not?" "Only if you give me the matches I know you have in your pocket," answered John. Billy reluctantly produced the matches, which John took to light a ciga rette. He tossed the still-lit match onto the porch, half hoping the house would go down in flames. It never did, though. As many times as he had sat on the porch throwing match after match, they always went out before they touched the warped wooden boards. "Mommy hated those things," said Billy critically, indicating John's cigarette. John took the cigarette out of his mouth and eyed the boy with a look of amusement. "Well, little brother, if you remember her so well, why don't you tell me about Mommy." "But that's all I remember." protested Billy. "And I remember she was pretty." "Pretty nothin'. She was gorgeous," said John. "Looked like a movie star. She coulda been one, too." "Why wasn't she?" asked Billy. John took a drag on his cigarette. "Got rnan-ied too soon," he said, squinting into the setting sun. "Only stupid thing she ever did, and it screwed up her whole life." "How come she didn't leave?" Billy asked. "She couldn't. She was pregnant," answered John. "With you?" "Nah. That was before me. Dad got her pregnant, and Mommy's mother made her man-y him. Mommy lost the baby, so she probably shoulda left him then, but she didn't," said John. "Why not?" "Dad threatened to kill her." John reached up, crushed his cigarette out on the porch railing, and left it there. He remained silent for a while, then 36

continued."Then he knocked her up again." "And then she had you?" asked Billy. "Yup," said John."Seven years later you came along.I never under stood how hard she had it,so I screwed around in school.She always had a hard time with me.But I wised up real fast after she left." Billy knew what was corning next and moved closer to John. "One night she took the keys to Dad's old pickup,and she was gone. When Dad found the truck the next morning,the front end was wrapped around that old oak tree down by the bridge you and me used to fish under.That tree's still alive,but Mommy ... " John's voice trailed off. Billy looked up,waiting for him to continue the story.He was shocked, confused,and frightened to see tears in his older brother's eyes. "Don't let him hold you down," John managed to say through the lump in his throat."He did it to Mommy.Don't let him push you around. You stay in school and get an education so you can get the hell out of this place.You run and you don't stop until this place is just a bad memory, you understand me?" Still too shocked to speak,Billy simply nodded in response. John got up from his seat on the porch and surveyed the landscape. The last rays of sunlight clung to the horizon like the faded chips of yellow paint on the porch railing.He fished his keys out of his pocket and walked toward his car. "You remember what I told you," he called back to Billy."And you know where to find me if you need me." Billy nodded again and waved to John as he pulled out of the drive way and sped away in a cloud of dust.He sat on the porch for a while, thinking.Then he got up to go back into the house and finish his home work before his father got home. -Freda M.Terrell

-Marci Dieckmann

A Tear for Her in the Middle of the Night A tear for her in the middle of the night, alone my eyes they stare, into the moon, into its light. I wish I could tell her that I love her, I wish I could tell her how I care, I try. I try. I try. Enlighten me on the reasons that I cry, I would rather fly, into the moon, into its light, and the beauty of her face, and the beauty of her night, she is everything I have dreamed, and more. - Maxwell Bilicich

Single Bullet "What's going on here? I demand an answer. Who are you and what have you done with my husband? Brock! Are you there, honey? It's me. Where is my husband? Please! Let me see him!" "Mrs. Tyler? My name is Detective Tom Sheratt, and this is my partner. .." "Jim Sloane, ma'am. Nice to meet you," he said, extending his hand. "Mrs. Tyler, your husband is dead. He's been murdered." "No, no! Please! Not my Brock! How did it happen? Was he in pain? I can't believe this is happening to me!" "No, ma'am, it was a single bullet to the head. He went very quickly," said Tom. As the tears streamed down her face, Tom put an arm around her and guided her towards the couch. "We have to ask you some questions, Mrs. Tyler. Who would want to hurt your husband?" "Nobody. He was a good man." "He must have had some enemies. I mean, after all, he was a millionaire. Workers that he laid off? Business associates? You have to give us something to go on," demanded Tom. "I can't. Don't you get it? Everybody liked Brock. He was a sweet old man." Detective Sloane noticed the woman twisting her wedding ring, her eyes fixed on the jewelry that must have brought her such joy in the past. It was obvious; she was nervous. She never made eye-contact with either of the detectives. Sloane wondered. "Okay, Mrs. Tyler. We'll be in touch. You try to rest now. Do you have any family you can stay with?" questioned Detective Sloane, cynically. "Maybe somebody here in the city that can keep you company?" "No, my only family is my sister, and she's out of town, vacationing in the south of France. Brock was very good to her. We have nobody. Grew up on the streets. Brock was like a father to us. He took us in and gave us everything." 40

"We'll get back to you. In the meantime, if you can think of anything that will help us, please, give us a call. We'll have an unmarked car downstairs for your protection. Don't let anyone in," instructed Detective Sheratt. "Mrs. Tyler? Would you mind if we looked around a little longer?" "No. I don't mind. And, please, call me Susan." "Thanks for your time..." "Tom, can I see you over here for a minute?" Detective Sloane intenupted. "What's up, Jimmy?" Detective Sloane showed Tom a picture of the old tycoon with the two younger women on the mantle. It was obvious they had both spent time with the millionaire. "They look exactly alike, don't they, Tom? Can you tell them apart?" "Nope. You?" "Something bothers me about this thing. There's no forced entry, and it seems like nothing's been disturbed at all. Someone he knew did this." "What are you saying, Jimmy? She is obviously scared to death." "Yeah, she's scared. Scared we might uncover the truth. I bet a millionaire like Brock had a will. And I bet Susan is gonna inherit quite a fortune. "Sure she will. She's his wife. I think you're wrong about this one, Jimmy." "No, I'm never wrong about this stuff. That inheritance is gonna solve this mystery." Some days later, Brock Tyler's family and friends gathered in his study for the reading of his will. Detectives Sheratt and Sloane were present also. Tom was dumbfounded to see only the wife present. He couldn't help but ask, "Where's your sister, Mrs. Tyler? It was our understanding that your husband and she were very close." "Surely, she will be mentioned," Jimmy chimed in. "Isn't she curious to see what he left her?" "Oh, she's still out of town. Sarah won't be back until..." "What the hell's going on here?" A beautiful, suntanned replica 41

bellowed as she thrust her way through the door. "Told you something was wrong here," whispered Jimmy to his partner. "How dare you read my husband's will without me? What do you think you're doing?" "Your husband!" Susan screamed with fright. "Don't you dare! You've done some terrible things, but this takes the cake. Pretending to be me! How desperate!" "Jeffrey, what did my husband leave me?" demanded the second woman. "Why, I don't know who is who. I'm not sure which one of you is the real Mrs. Brock Tyler. Detectives, what should I do?" "What do you mean? What should you do? You work for me," barked Susan. "I am your boss now," coerced the grieving widow seated before him. "This woman's name is Sarah. She used to be my sister. First, she tried to steal my husband. Now, she's trying to steal my fortune. Get up! I want to know what's mine. I didn't put up with that ridiculous old man for nothing. He was my husband, and I demand some answers!" The second woman, trying to pull her sister from the chair in front of the desk, screamed out, "I should have known you'd be up to something!" 'Tm sorry. I cannot read the will until I know which one of you is the real Susan Tyler. For goodness sake, you even have identical wedding rings." "Please excuse my sister," whispered Susan. "She has always been so jealous. She..." "Well, the rings can't both be real. We can have them appraised. The real diamonds belong to the real Mrs. Tyler," offered Detective Sheratt. "I'm sure we can get to the bottom of this." "Great idea," said Jeffrey. "Hand them over. Let's resolve this matter once and for all. Brock was a dear friend. I owe him." Detective Sloan walked over to the women and extended his hand. 42

"We can have the answer by morning," explained Detective Sheratt. "No, that's okay, Tom. We have the answer right now. The real Mrs. Brock Tyler just walked in. I am sorry for the confusion." Turning to the saddened woman he greeted at the mansion, "And you are under arrest" "How did you know?" the young woman hissed. "I was the compassionate wife. The grieving widow. I played the part so well. How did you know?" "Easy," said Detective Sloane. "That fake ring hasn't been on your finger long. The real Susan Tyler has a tan line where her ring blocks the sun. Sure is bright down there in the south of France." -Marci Lefkowitz

Lighthouse Lighthouse on the comer of the World Seated on a wreath of Boulders Oceans of Azure from there unfurled Responsibilities weigh on salt-kissed Shoulders. The ship slides in and out of Sight Within the Monster Dark Seeking out the Guiding Light To show her to her Mark. Until the dusty Dawn awakens Far from the Beacon she fears to roam And reaching out to her Mother the Child takes The gentle Hand that leads her Home. -Freda M. Terrell 43

Your Wide Smile Cascades Down the White Canvas your wide smile cascades down the white canvas brushing the oblique textures of thick strokes. your lips pa1ting, hurling colors of Lily green silence with the gesture of a pearl. mousy and muse of fire driven emotions. watercolor blue swimming in a bath of pink colored flowers. umcorn disappearing into that flowing stream beyond our eyes and vision. brown vines of Dionysian pleasures, those soft flesh feeling breasts of nurturing, two stars that float in a brown oak of sanitarium, finishing strokes of brush and paint, that calm contentment of metaphor. -Francis Nicoletti

Folio 24 -- Contributors Theodore Qualli, an English concentrator and former contributor to Folio. Thomas F. Lombardi, Ph.D., professor, moderator, poet, writer, and previous contributor to Folio. William Smigiel, an English concentrator and staff member of Folio. Megan Clements, a graduate and former contributor to Folio. Michael DiGregorio, an English concentrator, and editorial assistant. Sara Wuthnow, Ed.D., former Holy Family professor and presently a free lance poet and writer. Chris Tait, an English concentrator and staff member of Folio. Cecelia Johnson, a former Holy Family student; poet and novelist. Christine DiSario-Sablich, a Holy Family student and former contributor to Folio. Janice Jakubowicz, former Holy Family student and previous contributor to Folio. Victoria P. Lombardi, M.A., lecturer, poet, and previous contributor to Folio. Bozena Anna Flak, CSFN, religious, poet, and member of the Holy Family of Nazareth Congregation. Nicole Tatis, a former psychology concentrator at Holy Family. Candace Adams, nursing concentrator and former contributor and staff member of Folio. Freda M. Terrell, an English concentrator, chief editor, and former contributor to Folio. Maxwell Bilicich, an area poet. Marci Lefkowitz, an English concentrator at Holy Family. Francis Nicoletti, a graduate, poet, and former contributor to Folio.